


Under the Skin

by lazarus_girl



Series: GGSM Prompts [5]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still struggling to come to terms with her accident and its life-changing effects, Quinn is unsure how to reconcile the girl she once was with who she is now. When she turns to Brittany for comfort and support, she learns that friendship is more than just a word.</p><p>
  <i>“Brittany likes to fix broken things. You’re currently in many pieces and aren’t entirely sure if you can fit back together again.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindajoskid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindajoskid/gifts).



> Set after 3x14 ‘On My Way,’ follows canon up until that point and departs thereafter. A ridiculously overdue fill of [this](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=30248#t30248) GGSM prompt. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading, and [swearimnotthedevil](http://swearimnotthedevil.tumblr.com) who encouraged me to keep writing, and finally, [cobaltsiren](http://cobaltsiren.tumblr.com) who persuaded me to post it at all. The result is a lengthy Quinn character study, with a liberal dose Unholy Trinity love, and a sprinkling of Brittana on the side.  **A frank disclaimer:** Quinn is still in recovery when this story takes place. If that and the marriage of smut aren’t a happy one for you, then that’s cool, you don’t have to read it. No hard feelings.
> 
> This was written toward the idea of Quinn having fractured vertebrae or perhaps having sustained spinal shock rather than a permanent spinal chord injury. Based on my own experiences and not those of a medical professional. I wrote this because it was and important story to tell. I wanted to give Quinn (and Dianna) the story arc she deserved. In short, I didn’t like how the aftermath of Quinn’s accident or the depiction of her recovery was dealt with on any level. I hope this piece rectifies that to some degree.

***

 _“I think I’ll stay in pieces. I can shift them, rearrange,_  
 _depending on the day, depending on what I need to be._  
 _I can change on a whim and be so many different girls_  
 _and none of them has to be me.”_  
– Katja Millay, _The Sea of Tranquility_.

***

You’re breathing air. Outside. Not the recycled air of your bedroom; the stuffy, faintly disinfectant-tinged air of your hospital room; or the cool, clean manufactured air from the air conditioning in your therapist’s office. You’re free. You’re actually outside in the too hot, but somehow welcome stickiness of an Ohio summer – the last before everyone goes off to college and life sends everyone spiralling in different directions – sun beating down on you, sitting high in a cloudless sky, and you’re trying to commit the whole thing to memory. Somehow, you already know the recollection will be fuzzy. The sky you remember won’t be as blue; the rushing sound of the long grass in the breeze won’t be as full; the birdsong not as pretty, but you try your best to store it anyway.

“It’s nice to get out, huh?” Brittany declares, turning to you and smiling her soft Brittany smile.

“Thanks for staging the breakout,” you smile back, grateful.

It was a surprise to see her on the doorstep, ready to rally against every argument your mother could make to keep you inside; all bright smile and enthusiasm, bouncing on her feet because it’s impossible for her to keep still. It’s nice to know that for everything that’s changed, some things, some people can be relied upon to stay the same. Brittany still sees you as you are, and treats you the same as she ever has, not like you’re made from glass or gold or porcelain, apt to shatter.

The chair doesn’t seem to matter to her; that’s the thing she doesn’t see or chooses not to (people say things like that in theory, but in practice, it’s rarely true).

No one’s abandoned you, exactly, your friends are still your friends, they care – too much sometimes – but it’s not the same. You’re not the same either. They all have lives and plans and none of those plans entailed you spending your senior year recovering from an accident that no one expected you to survive. The world didn’t stop just because you spent the better part of a semester in a coma and then woke up to find your legs didn’t work anymore, but it doesn’t stop them feeling guilty – Rachel especially – for the fact it happened at all.

“Well, I figured you could use a change of scenery,” she says, shrugging nonchalantly, propping herself up on her elbow. “No one tells you how boring summers can be if you have nothing to do or nowhere to go.”

You squint against the sun’s brightness, shielding your face with a hand so you can see Brittany better. “We might as well do nothing together, right?”

“Exactly,” Brittany sighs, content, smoothing the blanket you’re both lying on before settling back again, hands behind her head as a pillow.

You fall into a comfortable silence, and you’re pleased that she talked you into coming. The chair is still in the back of Brittany’s car, because it’s too far to walk, even though you’re managing quite well now on your crutches, and Dr Levi is sure you won’t need them once you get to Yale. She carried you, piggyback, all the way to this spot without a word of complaint. The complaining was all down to you, because you’re still uncomfortable with people touching you or doing things for you that you were once capable of doing yourself, but she refused to listen to reason. In the end, you let it go, because you didn’t have much choice, and she’s only trying to help you the best way she knows how.

Brittany likes to fix broken things. You’re currently in many pieces and aren’t entirely sure if you can fit back together again.

Being with her, it’s easy, because she just lets you be. There’s no judgment, no inquisition about what hurts or doesn’t (your mother), what you need or don’t need (your sister), what plans you’re going to make now you actually have a future again (your father). She’s fine if you want to say nothing at all, but should you want to speak about any of it – and Dr Altman is encouraging you to open up ‘lines of communication’ – you know she’d listen to every word. Patient enough to encourage you when you need it and let you talk unhindered when you don’t.

If you believed in heaven – you don’t, not anymore, despite the fact your continued existence is touted as a miracle by your grandparents at every conceivable opportunity – it would look like this place. The best kept secret from your long lost childhood. It’s still and quiet and perfect, and so much prettier in these fields than you ever remember from when you were kids. When everything was simple and the days stretched into years, running around playing tag; sitting in circles and making daisy chains; barrelling into the lake after falling from the tyre swing; or carving names on trees inside love hearts. You’re far too old for tag (too tired and too broken); the tyre swing has rotted; and the love hearts are barely visible now, but it doesn’t matter. It matters that you’re here to see it all again.

This is temporary, you know that, you’re not in the same situation as Artie – you were so incredibly naïve about what he has to cope with it’s laughable – but you know you have to be careful; your progress is hard-won but fragile. You don’t like to think about how hard Yale will be if you’re still like this. It’s selfish, you know, because people have to contend with much greater difficulties, but you’re not sure how to marry the girl you once were with the one you’ve ultimately become. The reflection you see staring back at you in the mirror doesn’t line up, it never really has, but at least when Lucy became Quinn you were the one in control.

Brittany’s phone goes off, and she reaches into her shorts pocket to get it. Her whole face lights up with the purest joy you’ve ever seen. That familiar little noise comes as a painful reminder that you’re not in some magical enclave. The real world still exists and you still have to somehow negotiate living in it. You’ve always felt like you were on the outside looking in, always the observer, never truly connected, but there’s a real barrier there now instead of one you’ve just imagined. It’s no easier to get over. You know how to play the game of living, to make the right choices and tick the boxes so it all lines up neatly, but you’re tired of the rules, even if they’re of your own making.

“That’s Santana isn’t it?”

Brittany turns to look at you, surprised. “How did you know?”

“You only get that look when it’s her,” you smile knowingly.

“Oh,” Brittany says, bashful. “She says hi,” she continues, covering her embarrassment.

Usually you’d tease her a little, but lately you just think she and Santana are ridiculously adorable.

“Hi,” you reply, deadpan, pretending that Santana’s right there with you, giving a little wave.

Brittany laughs and says a breathy “Silly,” and texts back.

The only reason she’s not, flanking your other side as she always has for what feels like forever, is because she’s been roped into manning the desk in her father’s plush clinic while his receptionist is on vacation. Santana bitched about it, like she has every year, but you’ve seen her in action a few times and she’s actually pretty good at it. She’s good at a lot of things you didn’t expect her to be. You always thought the candystriper thing was just a cheap ruse. The costume she wore to school was a joke, but when you saw her in the real one, incorporating her visit during a shift, it came as the nicest surprise.

Brittany and Santana have been there for you more than anyone else, for every faltering step, metaphorical or otherwise. Your mother told you how they’d come and visit every day after school, waiting for you to wake up, reading to you and talking to you like Dr Levi encouraged everyone to do. When you finally did open your eyes, they stayed, seeing you through the anger and the misery of dealing with your injuries, the surgeries, and all the therapy that came after (even Josh the peppy, insanely hot physiotherapist didn’t make it any easier). Though people berated her for it, you were glad Santana stayed honest, brutally sometimes, when other people were sugarcoating things and babying you instead of helping you cope with the truth. Brittany too, though softer in her approach – even though Santana’s incredibly kind underneath – was just as stubborn, determined to see you through it all, both refusing to leave when you’d scream and curse and yell. They never gave up on you, even when you’d given up on yourself, and you’re glad of it now. If it weren’t for them, you’d probably still be in that hospital bed.

People throw around the phrase ‘best friend’ a lot to the point it doesn’t have any value, but you mean it when it comes to them. OK, so sometimes you’ve been enemies, you’ve schemed and bitched and done your fair share of backstabbing in the name of popularity, but if anyone dared to hurt them – and you’ve seen them hurt, too much, thanks to small-minded bigots and people who really should know better – you’d make whoever it was wish they’d never been born. No one breaks up The Unholy Trinity and no one messes with it either.

You should’ve known they planned this together. They do everything together. She won’t say so, but you know Brittany hates that Santana’s not here. That she feels like a part of her is missing. You can relate now, quite differently to how you did before, and it makes a different kind of pain surge in your chest, because you’ve never experienced it. You’ve felt things like it, thought you were in love, but nothing that matches it. There’s been no one in your life that you know is your perfect fit, your soulmate, who you can see sharing the rest of your life with, and you know that’s what Brittany sees every time she looks at Santana.

What if you never find that kind of love or anything approaching that kind of happiness? What if this is all there is? How could anyone possibly love you? You’re damaged goods. You fought so hard to be the perfect, pretty, popular girl that everyone wanted or wanted to be, and now you’re just a mess; fragile and scarred, held together with pins and plates. Somewhere inside of you, Lucy is laughing, big and loud, waiting to claw her way back out and take revenge for all the years you’ve forced her to hide away.

“No one will love me like Santana loves you,” you croak out, surprised when hot tears spring up out of nowhere. You didn’t even mean to say those words out loud.

“What?! Don’t say things like that!” she turns to you, face etched with concern, scrambling to comfort you, her phone forgotten. “Oh Quinn.”

“Why? It’s true,” you sniff. “No one’s going to love me now Britt.”

“Of course they will!” she counters, softly, trying to calm you, reaching to brush away the tears that have fallen.

A loud, wounded sob escapes and you cover your face with your arm. You sound so vain and pathetic you hate yourself. If you could get up and run away, you would. Being like this stirs up so many old memories; tears open old wounds you thought had long since healed. You just feel so incredibly _ugly_ and _useless_ , like your body’s betrayed you, again, and you want to break free of it. There’s no escape hatch, so you just have to stay inside and suffocate instead.

“No. No,” you shake your head, trying to turn away from her and put some distance between you, but you can’t. Your reflexes are still too slow. “They won’t. Who would want this? Look at me!” you spit.

The voice you hear doesn’t sound like yours at all. Angry and bitter, dredged from the very depths of you because you’ve kept pushing the feelings and the fear right the way down even when Dr Altman told you to stop. This is Lucy talking, not Quinn, and you don’t have the strength to silence her to make everyone else feel better.

Brittany cups your cheek, tilting your head back toward her so you’re forced to look at her.

“I see you,” is all she says, quiet and simple. “And you’re still beautiful. You’ve _always_ been beautiful Lucy.”

She never calls you that, not anymore, not since you were little in the days of jump rope and juice boxes. It sounds foreign. Something in you shifts. Something shatters into a thousand pieces at once, and you can’t breathe. The look in her eyes is too much – she’s looking right into the dark corners of yourself that you want to hide, lighting them up for all to see. Now you can’t fake and you can’t possibly lie, bot to her. It’s all too much. You reach up, grabbing the back of her head, and press your lips roughly to hers. You just need _something_ , you just need _someone_ ; because it’s been too long and you’re desperate to know if things will still feel like they did before the accident. Before Beth. Before everything unravelled. She doesn’t freeze, she doesn’t yank her head away as if burned – she kisses back, slow and careful. When you break away, letting out a shaky breath, she smiles at you, the picture of calm, like she knew this would happen all along.

“I’m sorry,” you splutter out. “I didn’t mean … I just need –” you can feel your chest tightening, the panic rising, and suddenly, it’s not so nice being outside anymore.

You stop short, not knowing how you can possibly finish the sentence, because you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’ve never been good at expressing desire. Sure, you can talk the talk – you tease, you flirt, nod and smile in all the right places – but now it all feels so _alien_ , like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore because all you’ve had for months is doctors and nurses prodding and poking at you.

“I know,” she replies, in that same lulling tone. “It’s OK,” she continues, framing your face with both her hands, stroking with her thumbs.

You shudder at the contact, feeling yourself start to relax. “It’s been so long, Britt,” you admit, brokenly, and a tear escapes. Brittany wipes it away as quickly as it falls. “I just miss …” you pause trying to gather yourself, “I miss being touched, I miss being held.” Brittany’s face falls, and you can see there are tears in her eyes. “I don’t even know if I can feel anything. I’m too …”

“Scared?” Brittany overlaps, finishing for you.

It sounds such an easy word, falling from her lips, like it’s fine to feel that way. Like it’s _normal_. It’s not. All you can do is nod in reply, because doing anything else would be far too much.

“Well,” she says, after a long moment. “Let’s try and see what happens?”

You blink back surprise, searching for a reply, but you’re not sure how to respond. Brittany’s always been much more relaxed about sex than you’ve ever been in your life. She’s entirely centred on the pleasure of it, when all you can think of is the guilt, and now making it sound like you’re about to try a new ice cream flavour, or like that time in the fourth grade when you all had soda and pop rocks at the same time just to see if you’d explode like Alex Kazinsky’s big brother said.

(No one exploded, but Santana threw up so much you never ate pop rocks again).

“I’ll be gentle,” she says, looking at you with the kindest eyes you’ve ever seen. Now you know why Santana softens around the edges every time they’re together. “We can go slow. We can stop whenever you want, OK?” she reassures, and you can feel your reluctance dissipating.

If it goes horribly wrong, she won’t make fun or make a fuss. If it goes completely right, she’ll smile her knowing smile. Either way, you’ll chalk it back up to experience, and if you don’t do it now, it feels like there won’t be another opportunity until you’re leaving for Yale, and you’re certain there will be no one as kind or understanding as Brittany there.

She shifts her weight, carefully settling herself on top of you, straddling your waist like you’ve seen her do to Santana so many times. There’s the first surprise – the first ounce of relief – you can actually feel that weight resting there. The feeling in your legs has been coming back over time, in fits and starts, each time it’s like a little bolt of Damascian lightning from above. When it happened in front of the whole glee club right before school let out for the summer, their cheers were deafening. The ovation beat every flawless solo that Rachel, Santana or Mercedes have ever delivered.

“You can trust me. I promise.”

You know she’s being sincere and you know she’s right. There’s no better person to lead you through all this. Whatever _this_ turns out to be.

Brittany’s face is closer than it was before, her mouth millimetres from yours. Before you have a chance to change your mind or even think of speaking, she traces the outline of your lips with her fingertip. Then, she’s kissing you again, gentle and careful; pressing her mouth to yours longer each time, testing, teasing and you smile against her lips. She takes it as permission to deepen the kiss, and if you thought it was nice before, warming you in a way that has nothing to do with the heat wave, then you were completely wrong. Her tongue dips into your mouth, curling, exploring, and the moan you let out is indecent. No one’s ever kissed you like this. Like they mean it. Like they want it. Like you’re the only thing that exists in the entire world. All that focus seeps from her mouth straight into yours – an elixir there’s no name for.

You kiss back harder, deeper, grabbing the back of her t-shirt just to keep hold of something, an anchor to remind you this is still real. Any second, you’re sure you’ll jolt awake and this will all have been some vivid dream. Brittany moans into your mouth when you slide your tongue against hers experimentally, and you’re suddenly incredibly pleased with yourself. Prudish you might’ve been, but you could never be accused of not knowing what to do when the opportunity presented itself. It’s different with Brittany, and not just because she’s a girl – softness as opposed to stubble, which is strange, but an enticing kind of strange – but because it’s stirring things in you that have been dormant for so long, and that’s wonderful and terrifying at once.

Breathless, lungs aching for air, you pull away, wishing you didn’t have to. It’s the best kind of distraction. There’s no room for regret or fear to creep seep into your brain.

“You’re good at that,” Brittany smirks, regarding you curiously.

You shake your head shyly, smiling despite yourself. “So are you,” you offer, and immediately feel yourself flush with embarrassment.

“I know,” she nods and her smirk blossoms into a smile.

If it was anyone else, you’d think them incredibly conceited, but you can’t because it’s Brittany, and well, she’s right.

“We should kiss some more,” she suggests, nonchalantly.

Her head dips, just like before, and you ready yourself, but instead of kissing you on the mouth, she goes straight for your neck. You gasp in surprise, tilting your head back and to the side to give her more room. She starts just underneath your jaw, peppering kisses all the way down to your collarbone. Revelling in it as she presses harder, sucking at the skin, sweeping and soothing with her tongue, your eyes flutter closed and your fingers find their way into her hair, threading lightly through the layers. When her teeth start to nip, teasing and sucking over the same spot, you let out a hiss, knowing she’s probably giving you a hickey. You feel strangely proud. Clearly, she does too, humming approval against your skin as she traces the same path in reverse, coming back up to kiss you full on the mouth.

You stay like that for long minutes, just kissing; heavy, lazy, and open-mouthed.  
Every so often, she’ll make you work for the next kiss, forcing you into stretching if want another – you do, because kissing is your favourite thing to do. It’s always been your favourite, even when all you had to use as a yardstick were the slobbering efforts of Puck when you were freshly reborn as Quinn and neither of you had any real idea what you were doing. That was just an imitation, and this is very much the real thing.

“You can touch me. If you want to,” she suggests, playful, when you reluctantly come up for air. “I won’t break,” she adds, like she’s just told you an important secret.

You swallow hard. Cautiously, your hands start to skate up Brittany’s back, caressing in slow circles. It’s good just to touch and to feel, because it reminds you that you can do it. Her skin is soft and smooth and warm, and you like how she leans into your touch, encouraging you, and you revel in the feel of her moving; the curve of her back and the lines of her muscles as they flex. She sighs softly, and it reminds you that you’re real, and you can affect people – that maybe this is doing something for Brittany too – instead of being some bloodless shell of a girl who doesn’t do anything at all, and you’ve felt that way for so long.

“That’s nice,” she whispers, right in your ear, capturing the lobe briefly between her teeth.

You keep going, smoothing up the flat plane of her stomach, and then, because the urge is too strong to ignore, you cover her breasts and give a tentative squeeze.

“Really nice,” she amends, latching on to your neck once more, kissing harder than before, soothing the brief nips of her teeth with long, broad strokes of her tongue.

Your eyes close, and you give in to it, letting yourself enjoy the feeling. It’s never been something you’ve liked before, because it’s usually been accompanied with rough, graceless groping, but there’s something to be said for just being kissed. There’s an art to it, and Brittany’s mastered it.

When she starts to slide down the straps of your sundress and then your bra, pressing soft little kisses to your shoulders in turn, you stiffen, inhaling sharply. This isn’t _just_ about kissing, and the wonder versus terror ratio has seesawed in completely the opposite direction.

“Britt,” you whisper, anxious, letting go of her.

She leans back, brushing away the hair that’s fallen into your eyes. “Don’t be scared, I just want to try something different, OK?”

The kindness in her face makes you feel like crying, because no one’s ever been this patient with you, not even during your first time with Puck, which was more about getting it over with than anything to do with romance. The idea it might be pleasurable or you might enjoy it was way down your list of priorities. Though Puck was a pretty solid bet in the skills department, he wasn’t so great at everything else.

“Stop thinking,” she says, with a smile, pulling you from your thoughts. “You think too much, Q. Too much,” she declares, almost wistful.

It makes you wish your brain had an off switch.

A few moments later, when Brittany starts to slowly unbutton the front of your dress, you think that maybe she’s found it. This time, her kisses dip lower; tongue tracing over the skin of your chest, her fingertips just teasing at the fabric of your bra. Then, her hands cover your breasts completely, squeezing and stroking, making them spill over of the cups, while her tongue traces an indelicate path between them. Your breath hitches, and a low groan escapes. It suddenly occurs to you; you’re being seduced. Seduced in a very gentle way, but seduced nonetheless.

A chill runs down your spine that the realisation.

You’re just getting used to how good that feels when Brittany pushes your bra down completely, It’s odd at first, and you feel vulnerable for the first time, and you’re about to say something, but it dies on your tongue, because she’s drawn one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking on it briefly, and then she’s swirling her tongue across and over it with a delicious kind of practiced ease as her hands still massage your breasts, and _God_ it feels amazing. It’s almost too much after being deprived of contact like this for such a long time.

“Oh,” is all you can manage, sound caught entirely in your throat.

Your fingers claw at the blanket, grasping for purchase, back arching reflexively into her touch as she follows the same path with your other breast, and for the first time, you acknowledge a throb between your legs. You’re relieved, again, and not only for the fact you can actually feel anything at all. It means everything’s still working. In fact, it’s more than working. You don’t think you’ve ever been this aroused in your life.

“Does that feel good?” Brittany murmurs when she releases your nipple and dots feather light kisses on the underside of each breast. You make some sort of noise that sounds kind of like “yes,” in response, and she lets out a soft giggle.

“Told you,” she muses, popping open the last couple of buttons on your dress until it’s open all the way down to your waist.

You shudder, realising how exposed you are. Brittany moves back upwards, her hands resting just on your hips, locking eyes with you, her mouth just curving into a smile as she studies you.

There’s a hint of smugness in her voice that sounds distinctly like Santana when she adds, “It’s going to feel even better soon.”

She starts to trail kisses down your stomach, soft and lingering, and you can just about tolerate it, but then, she starts to carefully trace over your stretch marks from Beth – they’re fading, but they’re still there, and it reminds you of what’s lower. It reminds you that your legs look like a roadmap now, and it took her twenty minutes to persuade you to wear the kind of dress you used to live in because you can’t _stand_ how they look. Longer dresses and jeans hide them, but it’s just camouflage. They stay in the same place, stubborn; no matter how much cream and ointment you’re told to massage in to reduce their appearance.

Brittany’s almost there, gently lifting the hem of your dress, and you’re trying to focus on something else, because you _really_ want this to happen, but you just can’t let her go there. The only people who have seen you undressed are doctors, nurses and your mother when she’s helped to bathe you, and you don’t want Brittany to be added to that list. She’s seen the other thinner scars on your back and right arm – the cast is only just off and everything feels stiff still – admired them even, but not the others. Not the worst. The surgeries saved you, they’re the reason you can sort of stand at all, but you don’t like what they’ve left behind – ugly, thick scars, still angry and red. It looks like there are millipedes all the over your legs, and the sight of them makes your skin crawl, literally, and the thought of anyone else touching them makes you feel nauseous.

“Britt, please don’t,” you say, placing your hands over hers to still them. “Stop.”

Your voice cracks, and you feel the familiar sting of tears welling up; angry and frustrated tears. Some things, a lot of things, you still can’t tell Dr Altman – understanding, open-minded, sage Dr Altman – because it would sound ridiculous out loud. You’ve always hated the skin you’re in, but you’ve never wanted to rip it clean off as much as you do now.

“Why?” she lifts her head, confused. “What’s wrong?”

She moves back up so you’re level again, holding your gaze, not letting you look away. You wish she didn’t care so much. You wish you didn’t care so much.

“The scars,” you choke out, almost gagging on the very word. “My legs … just don’t touch them.”

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, panicked. “I didn’t mean to.”

You screw your eyes closed, puffing out a breath, trying to pull yourself together. “No, no … I just … they’re horrible. I’m horrible,” and then, before you realise, out comes the truth disguised by a sob. “All I ever wanted was to be pretty, and look at me!”

Brittany sighs, long and heavy. “Quinn, open your eyes. Look at me.” It’s a gentle command, but you still follow it anyway, afraid of when her patience will run out. “Everyone has scars.”

You open your mouth to speak, but before you can even begin to think of something to make yourself sound less vacuous or just talk your way out of it, Brittany’s taking her t-shirt off in one graceful movement, and it throws you off.

“See this?” she points to a faint jagged half moon shape just below her ribs that stops before her bellybutton. You’ve never really noticed it before, but the tan she’s perfecting makes it stand out. “Our old next door neighbour, Mr Harvey, was mean and creepy and weird. His dog, Bruno, was even meaner …” she tails off looking down at herself, looking unsure of her words. “He bit me … I was seven.”

Now you really _do_ feel terrible.

“Britt, you don’t have to talk about it … I was just being –” you blurt out, scrambling for any other word that’s not ‘stupid.’

She cuts you off with a curt, “I do,” and all you can think is she looks angry.

“I need to talk about it because you have to know something,” she insists, staring you down. “The scar I got from Bruno, I used to think it was ugly and horrible too. It took a long time to heal, and I still thought it was ugly and horrible, so I wouldn’t wear bikini’s or crop tops or anything, but I got used to it being there, and I noticed it less,” she glances back up at you, a smile blooming across her features, “Now, it’s Santana’s favourite place to kiss.” At the mention of Santana’s name, her smile widens. “Well, one of them anyway,” she shrugs, blushing furiously. “She says it’s special.”

You nod along in all the right places, but can’t find it in you to believe her. It’s a sweet little anecdote, and maybe there will come a time where you can reflect on this whole period of your life with the gift of hindsight so everything is much less painful and you can pass it off as a learning experience that you gained something from. Today is not that day.

“You don’t believe me do you?” she shakes her head. “You don’t think your scars are special.”

“I didn’t say –” you protest weakly.

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, dejected. “I know what happened to you and all the surgeries after is horrible,” she takes both of your hands in her own, softening. “But those scars that you hate so much? They’re special because they show everyone how brave you are. They show everyone what you’ve been through. It’s your story. How could that ever be ugly? That’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing ever. They show when the new version of you happened. That’s why they’re so soft, see?”

She presses your fingers against her stomach to trace the shape of her scar. Your breath hitches softly, because she’s right. Her skin is just as soft as Beth’s; softer even it’s not what you expected at all. When she lets go of your hands and you let them drop into your lap, you’re not sure what to say or even if there’s a right answer – though with Brittany, you know there’s no such thing as a wrong one.

“People get weird tattoos so they have their story on their body. You don’t have to. That’s fucking awesome!” she beams.

For once, you’re speechless.

“You’ve never thought about it that way before, have you?” she tilts her head looking at you quizzically.

You chuckle softly. “Not really.”

“Well,” she begins, poking you playfully in the stomach. “Start doing it now. I don’t want you to be sad anymore. I want you to remember how to be happy. I know you can do it.”

She’s still grinning, full of satisfaction and pride. She has a right to. OK, so you’re not quite in the same place she is with all this, but it’s given you something to think about. It’s a big deal that you’re still here. It matters. You matter. For months now, you’ve felt just as invisible as you did when you were Lucy, but in an entirely different way. The accident and the chair have made you stand out; something to gossip over and gawp at, and yet, people forgot about you. They forgot there was a real girl with thoughts and feelings and ideas inside that body, fighting to get out and make herself heard. You’ve grown used to silence again, just like Lucy, and that’s no way to be.

“Britt,” you start, feeling your throat go dry, suddenly nervous.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me …” you stop short, closing your eyes, teeth gritting in frustration. You have to say this, but you can’t look at her while you do. It’s too much. She sees too much. She knows too much. “Tell me what my scars feel like.”

Silence.

There’s no point in holding back now, this is a one-time thing. “Touch me, like before.”

Those words sound so quiet; you wonder if she even heard them. It’s not the most eloquent thing you’ve ever said, but then, there aren’t many ways you could put it that are polite. If you don’t go through with this now, you’ll be left wondering, and you don’t want this day with Brittany to be added to the neverending catalogue of ‘what if’s’ you carry around and torture yourself with at every available opportunity.

You eyes snap open when you feel Brittany’s weight shift, and she’s pressed closer than she was before, skin to skin.

“Like I said before. If it hurts or you feel weird, just tell me, OK? Fun things are only fun when both people want them to happen.”

Though it’s said in her usual bright and breezy tone, punctuated with a brief peck on the lips, you know she means it, and you briefly wonder how many times this hasn’t been ‘fun’ for her.

She takes her time to settle, moving in a slow path down your body, pressing kisses to your skin every so often, and you’re glad of it. You’re trying not to tense the closer she gets to your legs, but you can’t help it. The hem of your dress lifts just like before, and you suck in a breath in the hope of calming yourself until you physically can’t breathe any deeper. It doesn’t work. Feeling her hands round your hips, you turn your attention elsewhere, focussing on the sky, following the vapour trails of planes long gone for far flung places. Then, you realise it: Brittany’s touching your scars. Her fingers trace carefully, and you know it’s not touching for the sake of it or the curious fascination of inspecting an injury. She’s exploring you; caressing even, as she carefully lifts and parts your legs. Her fingertips drift over your hips, then your thighs, and finally your shins, before repeating the path in reverse, slower still.

Your chest seizes as you get used to the sensation as she moves from scar to skin and back again – you’ve never dared to touch them yourself, not even out of morbid curiosity, so you imagined it might hurt, given that they’re relatively new, but it doesn’t. You try not to fight against it, scrabbling at the blanket and then the grass again to stop yourself from pushing Brittany away. It’s something to be endured. Like your first ever run on your mother’s treadmill; wind sprints practice until you threw up; putting your fingers down your throat to make yourself sick; pushing past the ache of hunger; forcing yourself to deny the deeper, gnawing ache of desire. For once, the endurance will result in something good. If you’re strong enough. If you’re brave enough, you’ll find real, concrete answers to questions that have been circling your brain ever since the sedatives wore off and you woke up from your coma.

All you can think is that it feels strangely numb. It’s different to the numbness that lingered in your legs, because all you can find in your vast vocabulary to describe that is blank. It felt blank, like your legs were disconnected from the rest of your body, completely unattached, despite the fact you could see they very much were. This, this has a feeling, of sorts. It’s like the vague presence of someone touching you; the long lost ghost of something more powerful.

“So pretty,” Brittany murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your leg; the material of your dress bunched up between her hands. “So beautiful,” she continues, even quieter,  
dotting kisses along the inside of your thighs left, then right. “Perfect.”

You let out a long, shuddering breath at the contact, missing it immediately when Brittany moves back, rising up on her knees.

“Relax,” she says, tenderly. “It’ll feel so good,” she assures, hooking her fingers into your panties.

You’re embarrassed now, for a different reason, because you wish you were wearing one of the pretty lingerie sets you used to put on for Puck; the expensive kind from that store in the mall your mother would kill you for going into, but they’re plain and ordinary, because you never expected this to happen. Brittany won’t care, but still, it’s just tarnishing your reputation that little bit more.

No one tells you how to deal with the stillness that comes with being like this, and even though it’s nearly over; that the end is nearly in sight, you’re still unused to the fact that you’re not capable of things you used to take for granted or that your body just can’t do what your imagination asks of it. She helps you to lift your hips; one hand on your ass while the other peels away your panties because you’re still getting the strength back in your core and your legs so you can’t quite do it yourself.

Once they’re gone, a blur of blue material cast off to Brittany’s right side, you watch, nervously licking your lips because she’s looking at you differently, with this, _hunger_ that you never anticipated. You grow hot under the scrutiny of her gaze, watching where her eyes drift down to – right between your legs – knowing she can see how much you want this. Literally.

“You have a nice ass,” she declares, with a devilish smirk, settling between your legs again, gently nudging them apart. “Peachy,” she adds, and reaches around, squeezing for good measure. “I always thought so.”

Your embarrassment is forgotten and a nervous laugh bubbles up from your throat.

“Is this OK?” she asks, lifting your legs carefully, making it so you don’t have to move a great deal yourself.

You nod in lieu of words, not daring to speak in case something else tumbles out of your mouth that will make this grind to a halt all over again. The fact that she’s touching is still scary and uncomfortable, but you push through it, forcing yourself to focus on her instead. She smiles, supporting under your knee, kissing all the way from your ankle and right to the inside of your thigh, lighter and lighter until her lips are barely brushing; just so, against your skin. Your legs end up resting over her shoulders, and she keeps hold for a second, letting you get used to it, a layover from physical therapy. The change in angle relieves pressure on your spine you didn’t really know was there. A blooming tension in your belly replaces it.

“Just trust me,” she says, earnest, holding your gaze. “You’re ready.”

Her hands smooth up and down your thighs again, then across your hips and stomach. Your muscles tense at the contact, anticipating more, and your heart picks up speed. This is it, no going back now. Her arms wrap around your thighs, hands curling to grip them and keep you steady. The first thing you feel is her breath when she exhales, warm on your skin, and that’s nice in its own way. She’s stalling, drawing it out to either make you anticipate more or ready you for what more means. Her touch is tentative but knowing; spreading your lips while she presses feather light kisses to each side. It’s not very much, not really, you know she’s just warming up, but you feel it. _God_ you feel it, much more intensely than you thought you would.

The warmth of her against you and all over you is a little too much to take.

It’s so different from when you’ve cautiously touched yourself when you gave in and let Puck go down on you. He was good; it felt nice enough, but he didn’t quite get you there. Puck didn’t get your heart speeding in your chest from doing so little. You heard rumours of course, people talk, but you’re used to things that originate from the boys locker room and spread like wildfire through the school turning out to be the fruit of an overactive imagination and too much porn, but for once, they’re right. Brittany just feels much _better_. She’s showing off, but you don’t care because it’s honestly a revelation to be with someone who knows what they’re doing and actually enjoys it at the same time. This isn’t a means to an end. It’s not something she has to get through before the main event. This _is_ the main event, and you finally get why your sister’s magazines made such a big deal about it. _Cosmo_ suddenly makes a lot more sense.

When she gently tugs one of your inner lips into her mouth and sucks on it, you forget to breathe all together, gasping loudly, wondering if it’s possible to die right now because it shouldn’t feel this good. She makes an amused little noise in response, and you swear you can feel her smiling as she releases it; nuzzling against you, mouth just pressing gently, before she finally runs her tongue over, and then through your folds in one long deliberate lick.

Your mouth forms a neat little ‘O’ shape, but there isn’t enough air to give it any sound.

At first, she keeps things light; lapping in short, soft strokes, groaning herself as she meets again and again with what you know will be hot, slick skin. The vague sense of shame you usually feel about that isn’t there. You want her to know how turned on this is making you, even if you’re not sure why. When she purses her lips closed, running over your folds in sweeping circles, Brittany’s name falls from your lips wrapped around a desperate little whimper. Your hips lift a fraction, unconsciously, searching for more, and she gives it. Her hands slide over your hips and around, grabbing your ass firmly and pushing upwards. It makes you pitch forward slightly, and you end up resting on your elbows, half-watching through hooded eyes. Every time she laps with her tongue, she pushes her hands upwards, guiding your hips closer to her contact, giving you extra friction that you couldn’t get by yourself. Every time, she presses deeper into you; picking up her pace, alternating between hard slow licks and even slower sucking. If the feeling of it didn’t make you throw your head back and let out a low, satisfied groan, the indecent sound of it would have. She hums against you, and it the vibration seems to rush your whole body.

It’s getting harder to breathe; your heart races in your chest and sweat dripping down your back. You can feel yourself growing light-headed, stomach tightening as she turns her attention to your clit. The second she touches it, barely, with the tip of your tongue, you hiss in pleasure. That sound elongates, growing louder when she starts to draw tight patterns all over and around it. You don’t have enough focus to tell whether it’s a letter or a shape, you just know that it feels insanely good. You bite down hard on the lip that’s caught between your teeth, just to stifle the scream that feels very likely to escape any second.

She seems to sense it’s getting too much for you, but there’s no way you want her to stop. Anything but that.

There’s a brief break for you both when Brittany’s hands move away, letting go of your ass. You drop down, seeing a flash of blonde, before you’re flat on your back once more; dress sticking to your skin. She reaches up to palm your breasts, thumbing hard nipples at the exact moment she draws your clit into her mouth fully and sucks on it. Like everything else this afternoon, it’s gentle to begin with, just a brief teasing before she lets it go again in favour of more of the maddeningly slow swirling movements that send her tongue delving deeper into you each time.

You swallow hard; grunting and arching into her touch, your hands covering over hers as she takes in your clit again, sucking harder this time, tongue sliding against it every time she lets go. Brittany’s pace is unrelenting, and you can’t get enough of it, your hand flying to the back of her head, fingers snagging into her hair. At that, Brittany whimpers, and your eyes flutter open just long enough to see her looking up at you with unabashed lust.

She wants you. You’re wanted.

That, combined with the pressure of Brittany’s lips and tongue is what finally tips you over the edge. You push up with all your strength, feet planted on Brittany’s shoulders, desperate to chase the feeling and sink into it, but equally desperate not to beat it and dissolving into nothing like it has so many times before.

“Oh! … Britt … I’m going to … I’m going to – ” you cry, letting out a long, shaky breath.

Everything that follows it as your body tenses, every muscle seeming to snap taut to attention – a mess of Brittany’s name and a string of curse words – is lost. It’s nothing like the practically joyless, almost painful orgasms you’ve had before now; always tense, never wet enough and nowhere near turned on enough for it to turn out right and bloom like this. This is _spectacular_. A deep, limitless warmth floods through your entire body, but it’s still somehow concentrated right between your legs. You don’t see stars exactly, but for a moment, you feel like you’re not here anymore, not inside your body, even though you’ve never felt more in tune with it. Never more alive than you do now: blood roaring in your ears and heart thudding wildly in your chest.

Your lungs are practically screaming for air by the time you can open your mouth to inhale again; quick puffs of breath, trying to balance yourself as Brittany draws the feeling out; easing you back down to Earth with the same kind of slow, careful strokes that started it all.

Eventually, she stops completely, and you immediately miss the warmth of her mouth, and you feel Brittany lifting your legs again, dropping them carefully back down; feeling the grass and the softness the of blanket against them once more. You feel weak and wobbly, like your entire body has tuned liquid; oversensitive and over stimulated and you’re still trying to catch your breath.

Your eyes snap open reluctantly open, and you look around, dazed, trying to process it all. Brittany’s face greets you, and she smiles softly. She looks different and the same as she’s always been all at once. Still kneeling in front of you, she’s tugging her t-shirt back on and fixing her hair. She’s looking at you wondrously, as if anew; her face flushed, her neat braids long since unravelled, and your eye is immediately drawn to the way her mouth is still glistening, all because of you. She notices, and makes a show of wiping it away with the back of her hand. The whole thing is carried out with a smug brazenness that makes you blush deeply, despite everything.

“You taste really good,” Brittany declares, hovering above you.

She pushes the hair from your face where it’s stuck, matted with sweat, and strokes your cheeks, framing your face. “Want to find out how good?” she challenges, in a husky little tone you’ve never heard before.

“I … Britt… that was … you were … I …” you babble, struggling to speak.

“It was hot,” she affirms. “So. Hot. Just to see you like that. I loved it.”

How she can say things like that, you don’t know, and how she can be satisfied in any way is a mystery. Selfishly, you didn’t touch her beyond kissing and groping, but you got so caught up that you kind of forgot about her. You wish you hadn’t.

“I should’ve done more,” you blurt out. “Do you want me –”

Brittany cuts you off, shaking her head vehemently. “I just wanted to make you feel better.”

“You did,” you reply, too quickly, surprised by the rough, raspy voice that comes out. “So much better.”

“I’m glad,” she smiles. “Everyone should get to feel like that at least once in their life. Right?” she replies, pressing the gentlest of kisses to your forehead. “You let go. You gave in,” she presses another careful kiss to your cheek whispering, “I knew you could,” before drifting away again.

The look of pride and adoration on her face is so pure that it makes you well up, but you manage to hold in the tears this time; blinking them away. She’s so sure, so certain, of absolutely everything in this world, and it makes you realise how little you truly know about anything, least of all yourself.

Usually, you’d feel embarrassed by now, the elation of it all starting to subside. You’re just waiting for that heavy cloak of shame to drop and envelope you from a great height, but there’s nothing, not even when Brittany’s taking her time to help you back into your underwear, tugging them back up your legs in a weird kind of reverse striptease. You pull up the straps of your bra and dress on your own, reaching to redo the buttons on it. Brittany stills your hands, buttoning and straightening it for you. Once she’s finished, she sits back, admiring her handiwork, smoothing out the fabric, like she’s checking to see if you look the same as before.

You certainly don’t _feel_ the same.

When you sit up, the blood rushes to your head and Brittany catches hold of you, snaking an arm around your waist before you fall again.

“Thank you,” you breathe, cradling her face.

It’s too small a word to express what you feel, but it’s all you’ve got.

She half-smiles, looking embarrassed, with a look that says ‘it’s nothing,’ but you both know the reverse is true.

Closing the scant space between you both, you press your lips to Brittany’s. It’s strange, at first, tasting yourself on her as she deepens the kiss, swiping her tongue into your mouth, but then, find yourself seeking more; intrigued by it, because it’s so indescribable. You groan, hands going into her hair, kissing her harder. Brittany makes you braver than you ever imagined you could be.

Suddenly, you get it. It clicks, like that last niggling puzzle piece clicking neatly into place. This is how you’re supposed to feel. This is how you were meant to feel all along. This is good. This is natural and perfect and wonderful and you have no idea how to begin to thank Brittany. You’re completely and utterly lost for words. Now you get why Santana worships her. Now you love them both even more than you did before. Santana would’ve done this for you in a heartbeat, and no one else would understand why. It’s not about sex, it’s not even about friendship or love, it’s a hinterland, between all those other places, and only the three of you all know where it is.

She rolls onto her side, taking you with her, still holding you with the same care she wraps the blanket around you both to ward off the sudden dip in temperature. It’s much cooler now; the strength of the sun is hidden behind dark clouds that threaten rain. You should leave, you both know it, but neither of you make the move, not even when you feel the first droplets of rain in the air. You lie there, bodies curled toward each other; watching her while she watches you. She holds your hand, saying everything and nothing, and your knees occasionally brushing together as you kiss again, and again, and again. This you _can_ do. This you’re good at, because every person you’ve ever kissed has told you so. This is how you’ll repay her, with long, deep, luxurious kisses.

You want to stay in this little cocoon for now; keeping the world at bay, while there’s time enough to do it. Yale, and the difficult twist of separation you know that’s coming for all three of you feels so far off; like a mirage on some distant horizon you can barely see, but it’ll be here before you know it, and you’ll have to leave all of this behind in the name of growth and change.

Brittany breaks the string of kisses grudgingly, breathing heavily as she nuzzles your nose in an Eskimo kiss. “Don’t ever let me hear you say you’re not beautiful again. Ever,” she continues, forceful.

Overwhelmed, your emotions start to choke you and threaten dangerously to spill out. To stave it off, you surge forward, kissing her again, quick and hard as a reply. It’s an agreement, a statement of intent.

“I’ll try.”

“You know,” she tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, “you’ll find someone and they’ll be crazy about you. They'll love you, every bit of you, all the way to your bones, and they’ll want to keep you safe and take care of you forever.”

“Not everyone gets someone like Santana, Britt,” you laugh softly.

You want to believe her. The way she says it makes it sound simple and possible.

“I know that. I know how lucky I am, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stop looking,” she replies, sincere. “You’re going to be OK.”

She’s right about all of it. You sigh, deep and content as she pulls you into a tight hug, stroking your hair. You’re so close that you can feel her heart pounding away in her chest, just as fast and as steady as your own. It reminds you that underneath it all, you’re the same as you ever were, despite how much has changed on the outside. You’re still Quinn. You’re still Lucy. You’re Lucy Quinn Fabray. A girl who is broken, but in repair. There’s still a long way to go. The path you’re on has shifted shape, and you’re yet to take the first faltering step upon it, but you’re not scared. Not anymore. OK might not come tomorrow, or the next day after that, but it will, eventually, and you have Brittany to thank for it.

You’re breathing air. Outside. Not the recycled air of your bedroom; the stuffy, faintly disinfectant-tinged air of your hospital room; or the cool, clean manufactured air from the air conditioning in your therapist’s office, but it’s different. You can breathe deeper and see it all so much clearer than before. You’re free.


End file.
